Home
by Mally O'Jack
Summary: Missing scene from the end of 'The Empty House/Hearse'. Sherlock's back, and he's safe, and yet his behaviour is worrying John.


So I was reading 'The Empty House' the other day, trying to imagine how Moffat et al. are going to reinterpret this for season 3. The three years away didn't seem to have much of an effect on ACD's Holmes, though hopefully this won't be the case for BBC's Sherlock. To quote Robin of Loxley, "please allow that years of war and prison may change a man."

Timeline: This story takes place as an episode coda, loosely based on the events in 'The Empty House'. The lines at the end are taken from Robert Louis Stevenson's _Requiem._ I'd love to hear what you think.

**Home**

by Mally O'Jack

It was like the ending to a musical, John thought to himself. The entire cast had gathered in the living room of 221b Baker Street to sing their final number, to take their final bows. Smiling, happy faces, and the curtain falls.

Except from where he was standing, Sherlock's happy face looked decidedly fake.

"Your first official day back in the land of the living and already you're solving cases again," Lestrade said, beaming at Sherlock. "Not bad."

"No," Sherlock said, "although it's disheartening that after three years away I return to find the Metropolitan police in an even more incompetent state than when I left."

But Lestrade remained unfazed. "Anyway, it's good to have you back." He grinned, shaking his head at the miracle that stood before him, and then he stepped forward. "Come here." He enveloped Sherlock in a back-slapping, well-meaning hug that only lasted a couple of seconds, but John saw how Sherlock tried to jerk away before catching himself at the last second.

Lestrade didn't seem to be aware of Sherlock's unease, and he thumped him one last time on the back before releasing him. "Right then. I'll leave you all in peace." He nodded at them. "John, Mycroft. Mrs. Hudson."

"I'll see you out, dear," Mrs. Hudson said, and they heard her fussing over him down the stairs.

Mycroft smiled primly. "That's our cue to leave also. Good evening, John."

"Wait, you're both going?"

"Sherlock has a suite waiting for him at a private hospital in the country. Surely it's obvious to you that he requires medical attention."

Sherlock had been leaning against the wall, but now he straightened.

"There's no need. John can examine me."

"John is a GP, Sherlock," Mycroft sang out, "and besides, it's the very least you could do, considering how much assistance I afforded you in your leave of absence -"

"I said no!"

The force behind his words surprised John, and evidently Mycroft too, judging from his expression.

"It's fine," John said quickly, "I'll check him over tonight, and then I'll take him to the hospital tomorrow myself."

Mycroft's attention was still on Sherlock, and perhaps he, like John, sensed that something was not quite right. Instead of forcing the issue he said, "very well. I'll send a car for Sherlock at nine o'clock tomorrow morning." Under that controlled veneer was concern radiating, an unspoken plea for John to take care of his brother. And perhaps there was a threat lurking in there too.

"We'll be fine," John said, firmly. "'Night, Mycroft."

And just like that, they had the flat to themselves.

* * *

John waited until he heard the front door close, and then he said, "he missed you, you know. We all did." The bubble of joy welled up again, that giddy, rushing relief that had been with him ever since the morning.

Sherlock snorted. "Don't start getting sentimental, John. We need to preserve some dignity at least."

"Fair enough." His smile died as he watched Sherlock rake a hand through his hair, a gesture he only made when he was stressed.

"You okay?"

"I'm fine." And Sherlock pulled himself up, making himself even taller, projecting the image of someone who was, indeed, fine. And yet... and yet his face was thinner than ever John remembered it being; haggard, gaunt, his hair hanging limp. He looked old.

But it was more than that. Yes, earlier that day when Sherlock had first revealed himself, his reaction had been genuine enough. The shy flush of joy, the way he'd returned the pressure of John's crushing bear hug, and then the shared exhilaration as they'd hared around London together after Sebastian Moran. But now, here in the safe haven of Baker Street, Sherlock was not himself. It was almost, John thought, as if he was trying too hard.

"Let's have a look at you then."

Sherlock sighed but did not protest. Gone was the energy of earlier; now Sherlock shuffled towards the black armchair, the one John had always thought of as Sherlock's chair. Instead of sinking down into it, Sherlock perched sideways on the arm, as if ensuring that he could make a quick escape if necessary. As if he viewed John as a threat.

John pulled the desk chair up and sat opposite him. "Can you take your coat off?"

After a pause, Sherlock began to unbutton the coat. His movements were slow and leaden, like taking off his coat was the hardest task in the world.

"Here - " John reached out and Sherlock started back. "Hey, it's okay, I don't have to -"

"It's fine. Continue." Sherlock's voice was low, emotionless. As John undid the buttons, Sherlock sat rigidly, looking anywhere but at John, as if he was forcing himself to endure this act of kindness, this closeness.

John helped him to peel off his coat and jacket, and he found himself speaking to Sherlock in the same soft, reassuring tones that he used at the clinic with his very young patients. "I need you to take your shirt off now. Are you okay with that?"

Sherlock gave a brief nod, still trying to distance himself from what was happening. Carefully John undid the shirt and helped him to ease stiff, sore arms out through the sleeves.

So the rib cage was all too prominent. Skin stretched over sharp bones."You've lost a lot of weight." Sherlock shrugged, as if it didn't really matter to him either way.

There was a layer of grime and a general smell of unwashedness, yet John hardly registered these things. He gently palpated the abdomen. Sherlock was holding himself very still, but he could not stop the sharp intakes of breath as John's fingers went on to probe bruised, cracked ribs.

"Lift your arm up for me?"

Sherlock could only raise his right arm to shoulder height, and there was a surprised gasp as John palpated the clavicle.

"Sorry. I thought so; you've got an old fracture there."

"Crowbar," Sherlock said, as if that word explained everything. Perhaps it did.

John put his stethoscope in his ears and warmed the metal bell between his palms. He placed one hand on Sherlock's shoulder to steady him. With the other hand he pressed the bell to Sherlock's chest. "Breathe in for me?" Sherlock submitted to this examination with gritted teeth, but it was when John fetched the sphyg that he started to protest.

"Is that really necessary?"

"I'm almost done. Then I'll put the tea on." As he attached the cuff, he caught sight of the gaping scar on Sherlock's forearm.

"What happened?" he said, and Sherlock followed his gaze.

"Dogs." There was a flash of something in Sherlock's expression before he looked away again. A chill settled over John, and he concentrated on inflating the cuff. He waited, stethoscope poised to detect the first heart sound, but evidently this closeness, this contact, was too much for Sherlock to bear. "For goodness sake, John!" and he tore the cuff off and flung it aside.

"All right," John said quietly, pushing his chair back and standing up, holding his hands out. "Okay." Sherlock was looking at the floor, breathing hard, his fingers gripping tightly into the material of the armchair.

He swallowed. "Well, there's nothing that can't wait until tomorrow. I'll go with you to the hospital."

Silence.

"And then I want to know exactly what happened. All the details. Everything. Even if it's classified."

No response.

"And you're staying here tonight, I don't care what Mycroft says. You need to have a shower, and in the meantime I'll find you some clean clothes, and I'll make us some dinner..." He knew he was rambling.

And then he couldn't help it. "Actually, there's just one more thing I need to check." He stood up close and took Sherlock's bowed head in his hands, half expecting him to pull away any second. Carefully, gently, he started to work his fingers through the dark hair, probing for any trauma, any scar, any sign of that terrible head wound that was seared into his memory. Intellectually, of course, he knew there was no such wound. But emotionally, physically, he had to prove it to himself. He had to put his hands there and _feel, _to create a new sense memory that his mind could trust. Only then could he fully persuade himself that Sherlock was back.

He was aware that Sherlock had started shaking, and his first thought was that he was cold, and he made as if to reach for a blanket... but then something told him that this was not the case. Maybe it was his sixth sense as a doctor, or perhaps it was just that, still, after all this time, Sherlock was his best friend.

And so he cupped the back of Sherlock's head gently and pulled him close so that his forehead was pressed into his jumper. He smoothed his hair with one hand, his other hand gently rubbing the nape of Sherlock's neck, and he felt the shuddering rise and fall of Sherlock's shoulders underneath his hands. His own eyes were full, and he did not trust himself to speak. Instead he continued to hold his friend, whilst Sherlock continued to cry softly into his jumper and the room grew dark about them.

_Here he lies where he longed to be;_

_Home is the sailor, home from the sea,_

_And the hunter home from the hill._

_Finis_


End file.
